Sons of Noxus: Glory
by Lord Gyarados
Summary: When the people around you fail to lift their burden, who will carry it? If one man must carry the weight of thousands, so be it. For that is strength, and we alone can bear that yoke.
1. Prologue: Introductions and a History

Hello, I'm Lord Gyarados, an avid League player and high school junior. I've always loved storytelling, and this is my first serious attempt at writing something big... ha, Sion pun. Sion himself is one of my favorite champs, and also my ticket out of Bronze 1 :P. Hopefully I make a good impression on you folks. Reviews and comments/constructive criticism is always well received. Enjoy!

But before that, here's a boring prologue. Skip to Chapter 1 if you're tired of lore.

* * *

 **The Continent of Valoran: A Note on History and Time**

Most humans, yordles, and other sentient species on Valoran use the same solar calendar and unanimously set Year Zero's beginning on the day of completion of the original Crown Palace of Demacia, and the ascension of King Sorren Ironspear to the throne.

Year Zero is a slight (some might even say bigoted) misnomer, as Valoran has several thousands of years of history before the ancestors to the Demacian race set foot on the land. However, for the purpose of simplicity, we will use the common calendar and Year Zero. Most of the residents of Valoran operate on an 8-month year, with each month being forty-five days long. This was likely conceived by influence from the ancient Shuriman empire, which believed in the inherent perfection of eightfold systems. Ironically, the calendar is slightly discordant with the motion of the sun and the stars; every five years, the calendar is given two extra days on the end of the eighth month to compensate for this error.

Now, back to the Demacians. They sailed from a land in the southeast, fleeing from a cataclysm that had torn their cites asunder. These people settled on the eastern coast about fifty years before Year Zero, and learned to cooperate with the people already residing on Valoran. The Demacian ancestors introduced great stone-cutting and metal-working techniques, which were quickly copied by their neighbors. However, their copies generally fell short of the Demacian standard, largely in part due to the ageless demigod Durand, who for centuries had perfected his craft in both sculpting and magic, and combined both by creating living, thinking creatures of stone, which collectively became known as "gargoyles." The Demacians built several bustling cities due to their artisan culture, and decided to allot one of these cities to the singular task of recording history from then on; this town, Archive, later merged with a nearby city of iron-smelting to become the prototype of the city-state, Piltover, which became the Demacian nation's chief ally and trading partner.

However, conflict soon ensued after King Ironspear's ascension, when the Demacians found a Nexus - a natural, potent node of magic - in the center of Valoran. However, the Nexus was already contested by the numerous wandering native tribesmen, who used the Nexus as a site of war and peace talks. Having been refused access to the Nexus to harvest the enormous amount of mana contained within, the Demacians conspired to exterminate the tribesmen and take the Nexus by force. Seeing that the foreigners were planning to destroy them, the bands of tribesmen set aside their past grievances, and formed a united army to fight the Demacians. This marked the birth of the city-state of Noxus, with Highlord Cairos Nox as its first leader in Year 27. The war that soon ensued was a brutal one, with casualties on both sides; the Noxians, lacking the technology and magic of their enemies, resorted to overwhelming through sheer numbers, using the bodies of their fallen comrades as shields and even fuel for fire-based weaponry.

However, in spite of their ferocity, the Noxians were eventually pushed back towards the Nexus, where a final, bloody battle ensued for dominion over the land on the seventh day of summer in Year 32. It was also on this day and many long hours of fighting that the Nexus was abruptly destroyed, the massive crystal cracked by damage from battle-magic and corrupted by the rivers of blood that flowed from man and yordle alike. The resulting detonation obliterated both armies and burned the soil, turning the once peaceful center of the land into a twisted, barren canvas of death - this became the Crystal Scar, where the boomtown Kalamandra was born from scavengers who discovered remnants of the Nexus, which contained a small fraction of its once enormous power.

Having lost their common objective and many fighting men, the two armies ordered a ceasefire and returned to their homes, and thence after Demacia and Noxus became sworn enemies.

Demacia soon became an isolationist, hierarchal society that was distrustful of interaction with other city-states, particularly Noxus. On the other hand, Highlord Nox used the masses who gathered around him as a resource to construct a mighty Citadel to match the Crown Palace, from which the rest of the city of Noxus was built around. Upon finishing the construction of the Citadel, Highlord Nox gave a speech to commemorate the Noxians' sacrifice, whose conclusion became the motto of all Noxians: "Forever strong."

Having learned stoneworking and magic from the Demacians, and possessing a wild blood from centuries of infighting, the Noxians were set on the road to an empire; over the next two hundred years, military campaigns were launched upon the sands of Shurima, the frozen wastes of Freljord, and the green fields of Ionia, and for every land they conquered, the Noxians marched onward with a hungry bloodlust in their eyes.

* * *

Having set the stage, we can now enter the realm of modern history, and introduce the players. So, in Year 276, with the naming of Boram Darkwill and the coronation of Prince Jarvan Lightshield, do we begin our story...


	2. Chapter 1: Eyes

_Warrior._

 _Butcher._

 _King-killer._

 _These are the words we often use to describe the first Hand of Noxus. But description alone makes poor storytelling. To understand out history, we must confront it, baring it down to the absolute minutia of the desires of the characters we build, for desire and emotion are the things that make us human._

 _The Juggernaut himself was not merely a monster, and it is folly to describe him as just that. Even he had code to live by, and in the end, he too was human, ultimately mortal and with the ambitions of a mortal. But the legacy that he left behind inspired so many others, turning their principles and leading to a microcosm of little stories for those who have the moral resole to delve into. The gods above and the demons below both know that a mere historian such as I, nor any man who walks upon the earth, can truly understand the wheels that turn in our world. But is ignorance not the gateway to learning? Is uncertainty not the path to progress? Only by having something missing can we find an opportunity to grow._

 _These are the essence of our nature, and I fear for the world. There are men who find themselves content while others suffer in poverty; basking in their own sufficiency, they neglect that an unchanging mind leads to stagnation, the death of all things in a changing world. To grow and evolve, that is human. But to those who scoff at the necessity of change, I ask you this question: how can you truly be unchanging, if the only things that do not change are the gods? So, are those who cling to the past gods?_

 _Or are they merely deluded men?_

\- L.G., Vice Historian of the Piltover Archive, signed Year 500

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Eyes**

 _"The eye is the lamp to the body. If your eyes are healthy, your whole body will be filled with light." -Matthew 6:22, the Bible, NIV_

 **Year 274, Outskirts of Oakensfield, Old Noxus**

It was a cold, grey morning for the people of Noxus that day, and a sharp, shearing wind ripped through the limbs and branches of trees and stirred dark brooks and the stagnant souls of forsaken men. On the earth below, one could hear the sound of iron-clad hooves striking the road, their equine owners snorting and pulling against the restraints that bound them to a creaking wagon. The driver, a grim-faced man wearing black, woolen clothes from head to toe, looked back at his passengers, who all wore dirty rages and huddled in the back, away from the driver and from each other. The driver grunted in distaste and the group traveled in silence for about twenty minutes, until the three meter-high iron gates that held in a small town came into view.

"Hallo!" the rider cried out to a guard, who was lazily staring at the horizon. "I've got a delivery here."

The guard shook out of his reverie and acknowledged the rider. "Hallo, Revere! What've you got today?"

"Children from the town of Sorrel, Farming District. Got burned down by raiders three days ago."

"Damn. Farming District didn't want them?"

"Nope, they're rebuilding some of the other towns that got hit before, can't take care of a bunch of new orphans as well."

"So naturally, we get to be stuck with them. Unlucky for the kids or us?"

"You keep squatting on that stump, Gerald, but I get the real work. I've got at least three more trips to pick up the rest of the refugees, and by the heathen gods of Zaun, these brats are lucky that they ain't shipped off to the coal mines or the Fleshing Arena. I've heard stories about the kids who go to those hellholes." Revere shuddered, thinking about the horrors of the Fleshing more than actual compassion for the orphans. To him, cargo was cargo; logs, children, slaves, whatever, and if he got his gold, he would do the job, and damn the consequences with a good quaff of alcohol to accompany it.

Gerald, the guard, slouched for a while, then attempted to strike conversation again. "So, you're taking them to the cabins?"

"Yep, it's out of my hands after that. Boring, ungrateful work, this is."

"Hm. Least you get paid well for it, and you get to look at more things than the same stupid sunrise every morning. Like me," Gerald grumbled as he moped about his job in sympathy.

"Says the guy who sits on his rump half the day and drinks the other half. Goodbye, Gerald." Revere smirked and lightly punched the guard, who rolled his eyes and opened the gates to the town.

Revere drove towards a twin line of large log cabins, which stretched across the road for a quarter of a mile. In the distance, he could see the western gate, and beyond that the forest which most of the people of Oakensfield felled for their living. He spotted a man going to work, a hatchet in hand, and called him.

"Hallo! I've got newcomers!"

The man walked over and saluted the rider. "Revere! More orphans? Can't believe the other districts keep dumping their undesirables here. Unless you've got a couple of your own in here, eh?"

Revere sighed. "We can insult each other at the bar another day, Callum. Here's the list of their names and ages, best I could make out. Just keep them sorted with similar age groups, hit 'em if they start crying, and get them to work like you usually do." He then frowned and whispered, "Also, I've marked a couple of the names, and you gotta be careful around those. We've got a real load of nasties this time."

Callum leaned closer and whispered back, "Really? They just look thin and scruffy, most of 'em."

"Trust me, riding for three days with these kids in tow has been a real hassle. The kid with the coat there," Revere pointed to a boy of ten with choppy brown hair and nervous, darting eyes, "Is named Johnny. He tried to shank me twice. He found a broken bottle or plate before I picked him up, and worked on it for half the trip with a small rock. He even made a second one, as if killing me once wasn't enough. Real psycho, I'm amazed nobody died on the trip here. And that kid, Amea," he pointed to a small, blonde-haired girl about seven years old, "Wouldn't stop yelling for nearly a whole day, and tried to jump off the wagon into a river. Heathen gods, children are annoying."

"Jeez, should have just left them on the road instead of handing them to us."

"Sorry, I get paid five extra for every kid I bring here. If they get too big a problem, dump 'em in the forest or something. Oh, and there's just one more you really have to worry about." He glanced backward at a boy who stared at the talking men. "That kid."

Callum glanced at the list, then at the boy. "Weird name he's got. Sounds a bit Shuriman."

"Probably is, he's got that Southern look in him." The boy in question was the age of twelve, and of stocky build. A mane of messy, black hair wreathed his face, which was somewhat lighter than the sand-gold color of most Shuriman peoples' skin. But it was his eyes that made him unique even among the Shurimans Revere knew. The irises were crimson, like the color of blood, and burning with an intensity that he had seen in few men. The boy grasped the edges of the wagon, scowling as he strained to hear the men's conversation.

"Oh, gods, Revere, his eyes."

"Huh? Don't tell me you actually believe in that superstition. Eyes are eyes, and as the nuts in Zaun know, any eye works, even if it's purple. Sure, the kid's got some mean blood; he beat Johnny to an inch of his life after the brat tried to pick his pocket, which is why I'm telling you to have some care. But he ain't demon spawn for having red eyes; his parents died, didn't they?"

"Ugh, I don't have a good feeling about this kid, but I guess you're right. Might as well get them to start work." Callum marched over to the wagon and slammed on it with an open palm. "Listen up, brats! You're going to line up when I call you, and I'll be taking you to your cabins. Report to the cabin leader immediately, and you'll begin work in two hours. Now stop whining and haul over!" After angrily listing off the children's names and sending them off to various groups, Callum and Revere were alone on the road.

"Well," Callum said, "New workers. I still don't want to work with that big kid, though. No offense, but those eyes, man. They had some evil in them."

Revere started saddling his horses. "Man up and get back to work, Callum. Don't go spreading your talk around, or I'll be carrying you to the Fleshing for my next trip." He fastened the reins, got into his seat, and drove off.

* * *

The boy looked at the number on the door of the cabin he was assigned to: 9. He hesitated for a second, then knocked on the door, sharply rapping twice. A few seconds later, the door was opened by a tall boy who looked a few years older than him. He had strength in his arms, the younger boy noted, from years of chopping wood. The most notable physical characteristic of the stranger was a streak of iron-gray hair that ran down the right side of his head, which accented the look of authority across his face.

"So," the tall boy said, "You a refugee?" He nodded once in response. The other boy seemed to find this amusing and chuckled. "Don't talk much, do you? Well, that's fine. Come inside." He opened the door wide and beckoned.

"We get folks like you all the time," the boy continued. "Refugees, bastard children, and the like. One of the jokes at Cabin Nine goes like this: the children that come out of wedlock here are better at jacking wood than their fathers." He smirked, and was pleased to see that his charge's countenance was slightly less grim. "That's a start, I guess. Oh, and I forgot, we're also the crazy cabin. You know how old Revere has those little marks next to people's names on his list? It's for messed-up kids like us." He amiably patted the younger boy's shoulder, which was a mistake.

The boy slapped the hand away and turned on his elder, red eyes burning with rage. "Don't touch me. I'll hurt you if I have to." His hands curled into fists, and anyone could tell that he knew how to fight, and possibly even kill.

The tall boy's smirk fell. He tensed and matched the younger boy's gaze. "Now, while I'd be very interested in seeing who's the stronger man here, a fight wouldn't be very productive. As I've said before, this is where the crazies go. One small slip, and you'll be out on the streets. I don't decide the rules, but I'm telling you this for your own good; I've seen several kids like you booted out and starve to death because they threw this chance away. If you want to live here, you have to play by the rules. Now, calm down, and we can talk about something like, say, not killing each other." He waited with concealed nervousness for a response for one.. two... three seconds, and found with some relief that the younger boy relaxed. "Much better. I'm Boram, by the way. Third eldest in Cabin Nine, native-born orphan. And you?" He then offered a hand in greeting.

The younger boy shifted uncomfortably, and shook the hand, muttering, "Sion. From Sorrel."

Boram smiled. "Well, Sion, it seems we haven't gotten off very well, but hopefully we can work something out. Anyhow, welcome to Cabin Nine and Oakensfield. We'll be eating breakfast and going to work soon, and I'll show you around for the first few days, so I hope you join us. There's a few open rooms, take your pick and then get ready."

As Boram walked off, Sion stood and scowled as he remembered Boram's stare, and his cold eyes.

For a moment there, he thought he saw anger there that was as great as his own.

* * *

Got my first follower! (Shoutout to Liimbo, thank you kind sir/lady.) As this is my first story, I'll rely on reviews to keep me aware of things I can work on. Updates will come every week, unless some terrible tragedy befalls me :P. Good tidings to you all, and remember, stay **forever strong!**


	3. Chapter 2: Thoughts

**Chapter 2: Thought**

 _"A puppet is free as long as he loves his strings." -Sam Harris_

Sion walked into the room - _his_ room. It was sparsely furnished, but done so in a practical manner; there was a small, wooden bed with light covers, and a desk with a two drawers with locks to the left of it. The desk itself had a miniature oil lamp, two iron keys, paper, and a feather pen in a vial of black ink on top of it.

Boram called after him. "The drawers are there for your convenience. The top drawer is for work clothes, which you'll get tomorrow since we don't know your measurements yet. The bottom drawer is for any personal things you might keep. It's a general rule around here that people don't ask many questions about what they do in private, but I know that Mr. Callum keeps a stash of dirty magazines in his desk." He chuckled. "Ink and paper is for those who want to write back home or to a friend. You'll have to buy more stationery if you run out, and the wagon riders charge a premium for mailing fees, so keep that to a minimum. Bathroom's a few rooms across, if you want to wash up. Alright, then, I'll call you for breakfast later, and introduce you to the other fools here."

As Boram walked off, Sion sat on the bed and stared at the wall. He had gone through much over the past week, and needed time to gather his thoughts...

 _Blood._

 _Fire._

 _Screaming._

 _The town of Sorrel, overrun by a Demacian strike force. The real incentive for the slaughter was not the town or its inhabitants, but its proximity to a Noxian trading center. The plan was to destroy the town to lower the Noxian army's morale, and use the resources at Sorrel to continue the march and shut down communication with the city-state of Zaun, which had been providing technology and bootlegged information to Noxus._

 _Of course, the food, drink and women capturing Sorrel would provide was a bonus._

 _Sion wondered,_ how could a nation that prided itself on justice act with such debauchery? _Sorrel was a small but prosperous farming village. While the Noxians who lived there had a common repugnance for Demacians, they kept to themselves, contributing their harvest tax to the Citadel every year without question or complaint. But due to festering old hatreds and the brutality of war, the town was overrun, farming machines destroyed, livestock butchered, women defiled, and children made parentless. Hundreds died by the sword over a stockpile of weapons and a couple of handshakes._

 _He only survived the carnage due to his own parents' sacrifice. He saw his father, a black-haired, dark-faced man, take a short sword and jump into the massacre, shouting to him and his mother, "Run for your lives." Sion never looked back, even as he heard his father scream in pain as he was cleaved apart._

 _Surrounded on all sides by searching soldiers, his mother drew away some of them by revealing herself. They grasped her clothes roughly, laughing harshly, and dragged her off. Sion did not need much imagination to know what would come next; tears burning in his eyes, he ran through the break his mother had made for him and hid under the bleeding corpses of his neighbors until the Demacians left the town to burn to ashes._

 _When he was found by a search party from a nearby city, the men were shocked to see a boy covered in gore and dirt from head to toe. While frightened by his ghastly appearance, they were also fearful of his unusual red eyes, and the hatred that seemed to be oozing from them. Eventually, after being taken to several towns, the Farming District decided that he and the other refugees were better off far away from them as possible._

 _Some were shipped off to coal mines. Others were sent to the Fleshing Arena or test subjects for Zaunite experiments. Orphans and the homeless were unnecessary, unless they could work; otherwise, they were expendable organic material in the eyes of the powers that be. Sion was one of the lucky ones, sent to the Lumber District on account of his build._

 _Sion sometimes thought about the children relocated to the Coal District, or left to suffer an even worse fate._ Slavery and exploitation isn't strength, _he thought._ **The way Noxians treat their own goes against everything we stand for.**

 _He believed the world against him for a time; he and his family were quiet folk, yet they were destroyed in a single day by Demacian troops. The councilmen of the Farming District signed off the souls of children as if they were animals. He felt nothing but an overwhelming coldness from anyone whom he tried to beseech or reproach._

 _But then he came to Oakensfield, and he was accepted quite easily, at least by Boram. He seemed fairly intelligent, and possessed qualities of a natural leader, from he way he held himself up to the tone of his voice. It would be fairly advantageous for himself to stick around the older boy. Only time would tell how this new life would turn out._

Sion was suddenly snapped out of his reverie by a ringing bell. "Sion, get out here and wash that grime off your face! Heathen gods of Zaun, food's on the table, and it's not going to be there for much longer unless you come over soon!"

If anything at that moment, Sion was hungry, and he needed to eat. He rushed down to the bathroom, turning on the faucet and washing his hair, face and hands as best he could. After checking the slightly blurry mirror to see if he was suitable enough for a public appearance, he ran back outside and promptly crashed into Boram, who was still ringing the bell and yelling at the top of his voice.

"Ah! There you are! C'mon, let's get you over. Spent all your time daydreaming, eh?"

Sion got up and managed a small smirk. "Time better spent than having to listen to you screaming your head off like a chicken. Where's breakfast?"

Boram pointed a thumb behind him. "Two doors in. Let's introduce you."

They walked into the room, where about twenty people sitting on long, rectangular benches were already eating and chatting loudly with each other. A few turned to look at Sion as the two boys entered.

Boram cleared his throat and rang the bell a couple times. "May I have your attention, please?" The people in the room drew silent. "This is Sion, from Sorrel. He'll be joining us from now on." A few people lightly clapped and murmured, "Hello," then the rambunctious conversation soon began again.

Boram pointed to a space on the table that was empty. "Sit there, and take anything you want. Hell, pinch somebody else's food if they're not looking." Sion sat, and noticed Boram sit opposite to him, closer to the head of the table, a large, brown-bearded man in his forties who seemed to be the senior of the cabin. Most of the other workers, Sion realized, were closer to his own age or even younger.

As Sion picked up a chicken leg and ravenously tore into it, the bearded man guffawed. "Oi, Boram, looks like your new friend's got some appetite! Heh, at least he's got some muscle, though, and if he works hard, there won't be any complaints to... why all the chicken's gone." (By the time he finished speaking, Sion had picked his way through three legs and eagerly devouring a fourth.) After the boy inevitably paused for air, the man offered a hand. "John Wintergreen, cabin leader, at your service. Pleased to meet you, Sion... er, do you have a last name?"

Sion took the hand and shook once, solidly. "Isaacson. Sion Isaacson, sir."

"Spirits have mercy, the child has manners! Not like this keen fox over here," with this, John slapped Boram roughly on the back. "He's as good as got the lead position after I've breathed my last, and sometimes I wonder if he's driving me there sooner. Gods of Zaun, if Boram No-Sire is not picking his teeth with an ivory fork in the Citadel in forty years, turn my rotting corpse to the earth for me!"

Boram coughed and speared a side of meat. "Mr. Wintergreen, you flatter me. I thought it should have been the other way around."

"Ah, but I teach you well. See, the trick is not to flatter your superiors. That tells them that you want something from them. Instead, be useful to them, and have _them_ compliment _you_. I've seen aristocrats enough to understand how they kiss up to each other. The Noxian upper class? Hah, the only things they have going up are their noses, which are firmly embedded in each others' behinds. But Boram? Ah, he makes no compromises. This child is a dreamer! Mind if I tell a story to the lad about you?"

Boram sighed. "You really need to keep your mouth shut, sir. Every other word you said could have put your head on the block. But go ahead."

John roared with laughter and eagerly began his tale. "When Boram walked in here for the first time, he was seven and had less meat on him than a carcass dead for two weeks. But he had some sharp eyes, he did, and learned the trade quickly. What got me most about him, though, was the question he asked me when we first met; 'Sir, what do you think Noxus should be?'" John smiled, remembering the moment. "A big thinker, even then. Of course, I answered him in the dullest way imaginable; 'Noxus is a country praising strength above all else.' Mind you, the way our nation's being run right now, I can tell you that sentence wasn't worth the next trip to the bathroom I took. Here's a tip, Sion; save the money you earn, as when you're old, you can't work and not even your own children will give a damn about you. Seen it happen often to men, praising Noxus from their lips like a holy word years before losing the strength in their arms and starving to death."

"But that day, this brat decided to go smart on me; he said, 'No, sir. I think strength alone cannot lift people up. What people need in Noxus, which they don't have... is freedom.' Of course, after I gave him a good whipping for talking back, I thought a bit about what he said, and even a mule like me got it." John grinned. "Freedom... a beautiful word, powerful and meaningless at the same time. In Noxus, humans are the ultimate resource. We live, we work, and then we die. Everyone is chained to whatever position they are born in, unless the world turns upside down by the will of some god of fate. Even the cats around the citadel and the Highlord himself don't really know freedom; they have their own routine of gossip, blackmail and assassination that they follow, and for a man who has everything, life itself becomes a bore, especially when he cannot act outside his own little bubble of miniscule control. What Boram meant was the freedom to live as one truly wants, to be able to fight and love and drink and think for something other than the endless work in front of him. Now that," John said with a wink, "Is philosophy."

Just then, a large, violet rune appeared on the ceiling and blared a ear-piercing cacophony of noise. The other workers immediately cleared their plates and stacked them on the table in a pile near John. He rose from his seat and nodded to Sion. "Well, it looks like I've ranted about nothing and wasted all you young people's time. Come with me, I'll show you your first taste of lumber work."

* * *

I am receiving positive reviews and followers, and a few have favorited the work! Thanks, everyone, I couldn't do this without reader support :3. On the flip side, I also enjoy constructive criticism. If you love the story, please tell me how I can improve. If you hate it more than you hate a Kalista-Thresh duo bot lane in bronze, please tell me how I can fix my mistakes, or rant without a reason so I can get a laugh. Either works.

Personally, I feel a bit iffy about the formatting. It feels too compact even for me, and I would like to know how to make it more reader-friendly. (like, if there's a double space option...?) But the story's going great so far, and I'll be churning out a ~2,000 word chapter about every week, provided all goes well.

P.S. Sion will actually get to talk and do some real work in the next chapter. And don't worry, action scene fans, you'll get your taste of killing soon(tm) after that. Thank you again for the positive feedback, and **stay forever strong!**


	4. Author's Note: Delays and Apologies

Sorry for the delay, dear fans of this growing story; I was overwhelmed with half a dozen projects and have to spend the rest of next week slogging through them. I will try to update after finals are over, and writing should increase in production speed during summer break (assuming, of course, I don't get addicted to League and Hearthstone :P)

 _ **"Wait... does that mean that my story isn't going to have another chapter for at least a week and a half...?''**_

 _Um... let's think about this a bit, Sion..._

 _ **"NO TIME FOR THINKING! CRUSH! BLOOD! CARNAGE!"**_

 _Sion, no, you're not supposed to be like that until Chapter 6 or 7, I need to develop characters and I need more time for the-_

 ** _"KILL! BLOOD! PROCRASTINATION! DELAYING THE SCRIPT FOR PETTY PROJECTS IS UNFORGIVABLE!"_**

 _Come on, you're just a product of my imagination (and Riot's patent office). Can't I just have a few days to catch my breath and... OHMYGODNOTTHEFACENOTTHEFACE_

Anyways, there's no new content at the moment. But don't worry, I'm not dead, so **stay forever strong!**

 ** _(BLOOD!)_**


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